


Fault Lines

by tsiviaravina



Series: Near Zero Contact [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anger, Angst and Feels, Crying, Dark fic, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Heavy Angst, Heavy BDSM, I Made Myself Cry, I am so sorry, Not Happy, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Possessive Behavior, Proceed with caution, Punishment, Spanking, Subdrop, Subspace, Triggers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:04:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6222973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsiviaravina/pseuds/tsiviaravina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles Lydon took what belongs to Ward.<br/>Ward is going to take it back.<br/>The team will pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fault Lines

**Author's Note:**

> *sigh* This was what came out of my head when I was trying to reconcile S1E5: “Girl In The Flower Dress” with my current take on Skye & Ward’s dysfunctional relationship in this AU BDSM arc. Actually, this is the first story I hammered out one sleepless night while binge-watching Netflix, so it’s made up of mostly flashes of critical events and is a little surreal. You’ll have to connect the dots yourself on this one. The first two fics in the “Near Zero Contact” series came later.
> 
> Anyway…Very dark fic (for me, anyway) involving dub-con elements and two very, very damaged people. This is nowhere CLOSE to “Safe, Sane, and Consensual”. This is a FANFIC, not RL. This fic is not fun or happy in any way whatsoever. Grant Ward, in this story arc, is incredibly possessive, and in this fic, he is beyond the realm of pissed-off and is perhaps already beyond the realm of redemption.
> 
> If you are not up for this fic, no harm, no foul. Just skip it and wait to read “Just Give Me A Reason”, which follows from the Skye/Jemma hug in S1E6: “F.Z.Z.T.”
> 
> Please don’t hate me for this.
> 
> In other news, I now have a tumblr account, so I will be happy to take prompts/requests at tsiviaravina.tumblr.com. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters; I just play in the AoS sandbox from time to time. I do not own, nor am I making any money from the use of the lyrics of the Sarah McLachlan song, “Possession”. Trying to sue me would be a hilarious, futile effort for all those involved.

_“Into the sea of waking dreams I follow without pride…_

_Nothing stands between us here, and I won’t be denied…_

_And I would be the one_

_To hold you down,_

_Kiss you so hard,_

_I’ll take your breath away…_

_And after, I’d wipe away the tears…_

_Just close your eyes…”_

_—“Possession” by Sarah McLachlan_

_“I hope you find what you’re looking for!”_

_It’s the last thing Miles says to her. A blessing, or a curse?_

***

After she fastens the bracelet around her wrist, she flees to the dubious sanctuary of her bunk and turns out the lights. She curls up on the mattress and weeps into her pillow, silently, the way a childhood in foster care allowed her to perfect.

She was right when she warned Ward that she’s always bound to mess up.

She _always_ messes things up, she’s _never_ a “good fit”—she doesn’t belong _anywhere._

Not even here, where no one will ever trust her again; where her own Dom won’t collar her.

She knows she doesn’t deserve it, but she can’t help grabbing Ward’s shirt off its hanger in her closet and wrapping it around her pillow.

Holding it close, smelling his cologne, she manages to fall into a fitful sleep.

***

He knows instinctively that she’s crying herself to sleep.

But he won’t go to her while he can still smell Miles Lydon in the air circulating throughout the Bus.

He’s been betrayed countless times before—

_(“…with your family history…”)_

—but this time is so much worse on an exponential level he can barely comprehend.

So he looks up into the darkness, allowing himself to feel the pain, using it, until he can think clearly enough to formulate a strategy that will make sure this _never_ happens again.

He forces himself to sleep, knowing he needs rest before…handling the situation.

He does not dream.

***

She wakes when she hears the lock on the door latch shut.

She swallows hard around the fear in her throat; she tries to keep from trembling in trepidation and anticipation.

“Turn over.”

She does, and presses herself back against the bulkhead. His face is expressionless until he leans over her and his nostrils flare.

“You _reek_ of him,” he spits out. Then his hands are on her.

He tears her shirt, using it to bind her hands behind her back. She can stop this with a single word, but mixed with her fear and shame are desire and relief, making moisture pool between her legs.

She just wants to get what she deserves.

***

He pulls her boots off and considers them. He nods to himself and puts them in the closet. He’ll remember to replace them later. Right now, there are more important matters to attend to.

He looks down at her, bound and trembling but not resisting, and part of him wants to simply tear off what’s left of her clothing and fuck her until she can’t walk, until he’s marked her all over, until she’ll never be able to forget that she is _his_ —his and no one else’s—but he calms himself.

There are a few details to be worked out, first.

***

The rest of his movements are cold, calculated, and precise—his fingertips barely brush her skin, even when he removes her panties and her bra. He unties the shirt and tosses the torn fabric on top of the small pile of clothing he’s taken off her body.

“Sit up.”

She does, careful to keep her head bowed and her eyes on the floor.

He slowly sinks a hand into her hair, only to use it to yank her head up and back so she can’t see anything but him.

“When I tell you to, you will get up, take these rags to the incinerator, and make sure they are completely destroyed. If you understand, nod once.”

She swallows and nods, even though his hand tangled in her hair makes it painful.

“Once you have finished, you will come back to this bunk. And no, I will not let you put on anything else. Keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told.”

She swallows down a sob born of humiliation and fear. Not fear _of_ him—it’s the fear that he won’t be here when she comes back. Tears trickle over her temples, but she remains silent, watching him watch her. Something in his stance softens for a moment and she closes her eyes as he brings up his other hand to gently wipe the moisture from her face.

“Get up.”

She does, his hand still fisted in her hair. He holds her still as he kisses her with savage force and no finesse. She doesn’t try to press her body to his. She simply opens her mouth to him, yielding under his lips and teeth and tongue.

He yanks himself away from her, making her stumble forward a bit. He releases his grip on her hair and she barely keeps herself from falling to her knees.

“Pick that crap up.”

She picks up the pile of clothing. Christ, she hopes everyone is asleep.

“Get rid of it. Then come back. Five minutes. Now.”

She’s shaking, but she slides open the door, and walks quickly through the Bus towards the “incinerator” FitzSimmons created and installed in the back.

***

Fortune is with her, for the time being, at least. The Bus is dark and quiet; she can hear nothing but the soft padding of her bare feet on the floor. When she passes into the maintenance area in the back, she shivers as her feet pass from carpeting to bare metal. She goes to the incinerator, tosses the clothing in, makes sure the top is fastened down securely, and presses the red button. She waits until it does whatever it does to annihilate trash. A green light comes on, indicating that she can open the top again. She looks down inside.

Nothing remains but ash.

She replaces the lid and turns to leave—

—only to (almost literally) run into Agent Melinda May.

Shit.

Fortune has officially fled the Bus.

***

Melinda stands perfectly still, legs slightly apart, hands on slim hips, and cocks her head slightly as she studies Skye.

Skye is completely nude and hugging herself tightly and trembling, but makes no obvious effort to cover herself.

And for once, she is completely silent.

Melinda approaches her cautiously, holding her hands out in a non-threatening gesture. She notices that as she approaches, Skye immediately looks down—a gesture born out of submission, not embarrassment.

Melinda speaks softly into the silence.

“Skye, what is your safeword?”

A moment later, a whisper.

“Lola.”

The corner of Melinda’s mouth quirks upwards for a moment.

“Ward has you using the ‘traffic light’ system?” Red for stop, yellow for slow down, green for go. It’s simple and effective.

Tears are streaming down Skye’s face. Melinda steps even closer towards her, sliding a hand through Skye’s hair, gripping at the roots.

Skye whimpers once, and nods silently.

Melinda lets the silence spool out between them until Skye starts to really shake. “Please…” she whispers. “Please…I have to be back in five minutes…please, Agent May.”

Melinda draws Skye even closer, but does nothing more than brush her lips over Skye’s forehead. “It’s all right, Skye,” she murmurs, and, with a tiny bit of regret, releases her grip on Skye’s hair. “Go,” she commands and watches as Skye dashes off down the corridor, back to Ward.

She sighs softly, turning to continue her walk towards the avionics bay and routine maintenance.

But something—Skye’s eerie silence; the feeling in her gut—makes her pull out her phone and shoot a text to Phil.

Someone should monitor the security feeds tonight.

***

Skye opens the door to her bunk and steps inside, hastily rubbing away her tears. She notices that Ward has stripped the bed of everything but the bottom sheet. He doesn’t turn to face her as he finishes folding the top sheet and blanket and tucking them away, with her pillow, into the closet.

She doesn’t know what he’s done with the shirt that smells like him.

“You ran into May.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Yes, sir,” she whispers to his back.

A beat of silence. Then: “I can smell her perfume.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” is the automatic response, since smelling like Miles has already royally pissed him off.

He finally comes over to her; a looming shadow in the darkness. “She touched you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How?”

“Her hand—her left hand in my hair, and…and a kiss on the forehead, sir.”

His hand comes up, tangling itself in the roots of her hair again. Her eyes fall closed.

“What did she say?”

There’s nothing but darkness and his voice. “She asked me what my safeword was, and if we were using the ‘traffic-light’ system, sir.”

“Did you answer her questions truthfully?”

“Yes, sir.” She’s gently swaying on her feet, held in place only by the hand in her hair.

Another beat of silence. “Good.”

She shivers in relief. “Thank you, sir,” she remembers to whisper.

The hand in her hair raises her head and warm lips brush her own.

“Open your eyes.”

Her eyelids are heavy as lead, but she does as she’s told. He points to her nightstand, where she sees a towel, a washcloth, a bar of soap, her toothbrush, toothpaste, and mouthwash and what looks like a disposable douche.

“You will shower, and you will wash everything, even your hair, with that soap. You will use the douche to give yourself a thorough cleansing. You will brush your teeth and use the mouthwash. Then you will come back to this bunk. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Barely a whisper. She understands too well, and feels self-disgust crawling over her skin, reminding her of every place Miles put his fingers, hands, tongue, and cock. She suddenly can’t wait to scrub Miles’s touch off her skin.

The hand releases her hair and she does fall to her knees this time, still shaking. He says nothing, does nothing. She staggers to her feet, picks up everything in the towel, and manages to walk to the shower stall at the rear of the plane.

***

When she smells the soap, she’s not surprised to find that it’s Ward’s. The fact that he wants her covered in his scent comforts her somewhat. She washes her hair twice. She goes over every inch of skin until she’s bright red from the hot water and the washcloth. The douche is achingly cold, but she feels relief, as well, as the last traces of Miles disappear down the drain. She counts to make sure she has brushed her teeth for two minutes, then rinses her mouth twice. She closes her eyes and sighs, finally feeling clean enough to return.

She dries herself quickly, then simply folds the towel to carry back to her bunk.

He hadn’t said she could use it to cover herself, after all.

***

His mouth quirks into a small smile when she walks back into the bunk, carrying the towel. She’s farther down than he thought, which means he will have to have far more control over himself than he had previously considered. He watches in silence, arms folded over his chest, as she puts the towel down on the nightstand and kneels—thighs open, spine straight, head bowed down, as he’s taught her—at his feet.

“Don’t move,” he says softly, and carefully steps around her to close and lock the door to the bunk.

He positions himself behind her and kneels, yanking her back to his chest with one arm and no warning. She lets out a small gasp, but makes no other sound.

“Good girl,” he whispers into her hair, feeling her shiver against him. She inhales as if to speak and he places his other hand gently over her mouth. “I just want you quiet for now. I’ll let you know when you can speak again. Nod if you understand.”

She nods once.

Satisfied, he begins to examine her with touch and smell. Her hair is tangled, but she smells of nothing now but soap and water. He takes up the brush he found in her belongings and slowly, gently brushes away the tangles. He feels and hears her exhale and feels small, warm drops pepper his left arm where he is still holding her. He finishes brushing her hair and presses his lips to the top of her head, inhaling, finally smelling nothing but Skye wrapped in his scent. She lets out another shivery exhale and he feels more tears fall even as she presses herself back against him. 

He slips a hand between her thighs, and is proud of her when she opens them wider with no instruction or command from him. He slips one finger inside her and part of him is amazed to find her already dripping wet. Another part, a possessive, predatory part, takes it simply as his due.

She belongs to him, after all.

He adds a second finger, smiling when she makes no sound. “Good girl,” he whispers again, feeling her walls flutter around his fingers. He manages to nuzzle her hair aside so he can fasten his mouth on her neck.

He takes delight in teasing her, twisting his fingers inside her while gently stroking her clit with his thumb. He massages the skin between her legs, waxed bare and smooth at his prompting. His fingertips trace inside and outside every fold of skin, reminding her that she doesn’t even belong to herself right now. She’s shaking hard and the muscles in her thighs are trembling. He can hear her panting, but she still hasn’t made a sound.

His cock is as hard as granite and he wants nothing more at this moment than to watch her and feel her come apart beneath him…but not yet, that predatory, possessive part of him whispers.

***

She’s going to go insane.

She bites her lip and tastes blood as more tears pour down her face.

He’s got two fingers in her and his thumb on her clit and she can feel him, hard as fucking rock, against her ass. His mouth is warm and wet against her neck as he carefully bites down and licks and sucks in spots that would normally have her screaming and pleading and begging by now.

But this isn’t about normal.

This is about Ward, and what she’s done to him, and what she’ll have to do to earn the privilege of having him pin her down and fuck the life out of her. Again.

She wants to whine, or at least whimper, when he withdraws his hand and mouth, but she’s been good this long—he said so—so she figures she can stay quiet.

Suddenly, she’s swept up by strong arms and dumped unceremoniously on the mattress. She stays still and quiet where she falls, waiting for instructions.

“Why?”

She’s startled by the question coming at her out of the silence, like the crack of a whip in the darkened room. She risks glancing up at him, confusion all over her face. Plus, he hasn’t said…

“When I ask you a direct question, you will answer it. Now, again. Why?”

She can hardly put two words together in her head. She knows she’s dropped farther than ever before and mentally struggles upwards.

“You and I had argued about the collar…then everyone thought I had hacked into the Chinese feed…and I was angry…I didn’t think—”

Before her mind can register what’s happening, she’s face-down on the mattress. Then one large hand is pinning her down in the center of her back and she gets three massive blows to her ass with his other hand for, what she now realizes, is a monumentally stupid answer. The pain and shock just barely lets her draw in a breath.

“You _didn’t_ think,” he hisses into her ear. “You _don’t_ think. _That_ is your biggest problem—you don’t think; you just _act,_ with _no_ regard for the consequences. That changes—right now.” His hand is tangled in her hair again and he lifts her head so she is once again looking at him.

“You _betrayed_ the team. You _tipped off a suspect_ in an _active investigation_. You compromised _our part_ of the mission. You almost got Coulson and May _killed_ ,” he spits out, giving her head a shake with each consequence listed. She closes her eyes and swallows, but the tears still come.

“Agent Kwan is _dead_. Chan Ho Yin—someone we, as S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, swore to protect—is _dead_. You may not be directly responsible for those deaths, but… _indulging_ yourself and your anger resulted in critical delays that compromised the overall mission, resulting in a dead Asset—and a dead Agent.”

There is nothing in her stomach, but she can feel the bile rise in her throat and she thrashes away from him only to grab the wastepaper basket from the floor so she can retch into it, harsh sobs escaping her. She drops the wastepaper basket from nerveless fingers and curls up on the bed, trying to make herself as small as possible.

He’s right. God help her—he’s right.

She’s always hated being alone in the dark—the place where her demons await her and her nightmares reside.

Now she doesn’t fight it.

She welcomes it.

***

He’s stunned—and frightened—by her visceral, physical response.

He kneels on the mattress next to her.

He places a hand on her shoulder. She’s freezing; her skin is clammy with cold sweat.

“Skye.” He shakes her gently.

“Skye!”

No response.

He grabs her and turns her over.

_“SKYE!!!”_

***

Phil’s hand shakes as he tries to pour them each a scotch.

Melinda takes the bottle from him. Her hand barely trembles as she pours them each a double, but Phil knows her well enough to notice it. She puts the bottle down, picks up her glass, and knocks it back.

They had been lucky…

…if you could call Skye’s current condition, unconscious from shock, Simmons briefly explained, on a gurney in the lab, and Ward’s current condition, unconscious from a shot of dendrotoxin, on a mattress in the Cage, luck.

Phil had been watching the security feed to Skye’s bunk and had been able to unlock Skye’s door and alert Simmons and Melinda when Skye went unresponsive and Ward—

Phil looks down at his arm where bruises are already blooming on his skin. He notices that Melinda winces slightly when she pours herself another scotch. He doesn’t want to know what she looks like under her flight jacket, and apparently, neither does she, since she refuses to take it off.

She did accept an ice pack for her dislocated shoulder, though.

“It’s my fault,” she sighs, not looking at him. “I could have intervened earlier, but I didn’t think—”

“If you’re at fault, then so am I,” he stops her, suddenly and harshly. “There’s plenty of blame to go around.” He looks at the tablet lying between them on the bar. It shows the lab transformed into a medical bay with Simmons closely monitoring a pale, unconscious Skye and Fitz offering a distressed Simmons what comfort he can. He presses a button and the image switches to Ward, tossed unceremoniously onto a bare mattress in the Cage, out cold. He switches the image back to Skye.

He turns away, looking out a window at dark clouds limned by moonlight.

“Did you listen to the…audio from the feed?”

“Yes.” Another sigh. “He’s just as broken as she is,” Melinda says, bringing up Ward’s file on her own tablet. He’s hidden his psychological issues well, for the most part, and no one has thought to dig much past the façade Ward has kept carefully in place. However, Melinda excels at seeing below the surface—to read the words that aren’t written down in his psych eval.

“And do I risk separating them permanently and maybe making a bigger mistake?” Phil eases himself on to one of the couches, unable to muffle a groan, glad for once that he’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans instead of a suit.

She raises an eyebrow at him.

“I already took half of one of those pain pills Simmons gave us and had two glasses of scotch, damn it. I don’t want to be too doped up if— _when_ Skye wakes up.”

He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead and feels a familiar, firm touch on his shoulder. “Then just rest your eyes for a while. I’ll take the first watch.”

He nods, not even opening his eyes, letting his muscles relax at her command.

***

She doesn’t want to come back from wherever she is, from what feels like the deepest drop she’s ever done.

Here, there’s no pain.

Here, nothing matters.

Not lies.

Not betrayal.

Not death.

Not…contempt.

But a familiar smell is tickling her nose...

“I know he gives her massages with it…does so much typing, it’s no wonder she loves having her hands…” The voice doesn’t match the scent. The voice she’s hearing is female. Familiar, already treasured, but that voice matches other scents… _lavender, rose…_ the words come to her.  

This scent, the one she’s smelling right now, belongs to a male voice, steel wrapped in velvet.

She’s curious; she’s always been curious. Too curious for her own good. _Curiosity killed the cat,_ the nuns used to tell her.

_But satisfaction brought him back,_ she would retort, earning herself either a smack or a laugh.

But it doesn’t matter; she’s curious _now_ and she comes up a little more. Now she can feel someone gently, carefully massaging her hands.

She smells Tiger Balm.

She hears an echo of that _voice…_

_SKYE!!!_

Her eyes fly open.

***

“I’m fine, I swear! Just—I know I scared all of you and I’m sorry, but where is Ward?”

“He’s doped to the gills in the Cage and you’re not getting anywhere near him. Get your ass back on that gurney, Skye!” Coulson’s shout overpowers all other noise in the lab.

Everyone goes silent.

Skye, with some assistance from Simmons, gets herself back on the gurney, wisely keeping her mouth shut.

“You went into shock from emotional trauma and clocked out for about ninety minutes, scaring the living Jesus out of the rest of us, including the idiot currently residing in the Cage, who is the one who did it to you in the first place.” Coulson hands Skye a bottle of her purple sports drink. “Finish that bottle and we’ll talk about the _possibility_ of me allowing you to see Ward for any length of time.”

Skye cracks open the bottle and takes a couple of large swallows. “What are you talking about—emotional trauma? Shock? You’re not making any sense—”

“Skye, to put it in layman’s terms, your brain is still trying to protect you from what Ward did and said to you tonight,” Simmons tells her matter-of-factly as she pulls the blankets back up over Skye. “You’re not seeing him until you watch the recording of the security feeds and process what happened between the two of you.”

Skye is suddenly glad that she has the purple crap in her hand because her mouth has gone incredibly dry. She takes a few more swallows. “What happened?” she asks softly.

May steps forward and lays a hand on Coulson’s arm. She had convinced him to shower and change from his late-night T-shirt and jeans into a suit, so Skye hasn’t seen any of the damage Ward’s done. “This,” she says simply, and unzips her flight jacket. She unbuttons her shirt and lets both fall to the floor.

May slowly turns, moving the fall of her hair so Skye can see the rainbow of bruises Ward’s fingers, feet, and fists left behind before Coulson finally shot him with the “Night-Night” pistol.

“Coulson has a matching set,” May says quietly, slowly picking up her shirt and putting it back on.

Skye’s skin has gone deathly pale again and Simmons lashes out.

_“That’s enough!_ You’re disturbing the patient _you_ put in _my_ care! If you’re not helping me get Skye settled in her own bunk, then find something else to do and stay the _hell_ out of my way!”

May is the first to recover and respond to Simmons’s bright flare of anger. “Let me make up her bed; straighten things up a little. Simmons, do you want your bag in Skye’s room as well?”

“Yes, thank you, Agent May,” Simmons says, her voice calm once again. “Skye, finish your drink and then I’ll take out your I.V. line. Then we’ll take you to wash up and get you back to your bunk. I’ll stay with you since Ward isn’t available at the moment, and you still need aftercare.”

Skye just nods, working on finishing her bottle of purple crap.

She won’t look at her own skin just yet.

She wipes a hand over her eyes. Oh God, Grant, she thinks to herself. What did we do?

***

She watches the feed.

She listens to the audio.

Her eyes are dry when she turns to Coulson.

“I want to see him.”

“Skye—”

“Now.”

***

When she’s finally allowed to enter the Cage, Ward is just beginning to shake off the effects of the dendrotoxin. Literally.

He’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, he’s slick with sweat, and the Cage isn’t the warmest room on the Bus. He’s curled up on the mattress and shivering.

“Oh, Grant,” she whispers. She knows that Coulson’s monitoring the feed, audio and video, from right outside so he can send May in to sedate Ward again if necessary, but none of that matters anymore.

She cautiously, carefully, walks towards the man on the sweat-soaked mattress. Will she find the weapon, or the man? And if she finds the man, which man will she find?

She’s wearing a nightshirt and boxers—easy enough to slip out of if necessary. She’s carrying two blankets, two pillows, a towel, a change of clothing for Ward, and a small cooler holding water and washcloths. She puts everything down before approaching him.

She sees his eyes flutter open, even in the dim light. She crouches down and runs a hand through his hair, down his neck, and over his back, over and over and over. She doesn’t say anything, even when he turns his head to look at her.

“Skye?” A voice made harsh from shouting, then screaming, then crying.

“I’m here, if you want me to be,” she answers.

The shaking increases and he reaches out a hand and fists it in her nightshirt. She moves closer to him until his face is pressed into her thigh and his shoulders are in her lap. All his muscles are coiled and tight enough to snap. She runs both of her hands over his head, down his neck, and across his shoulders and back, petting and petting. Over and over and over again.

“Let me take care of you, Grant,” she whispers. “Please.”

He feels as if he’s going to shake apart. “I hurt you,” he whispers to her. “I… _broke_ something in you. And a part of me _wanted_ to do it. _No one_ should be taking care of me,” he finishes on a sob.

She bends her body over his, to shield him from the video feed, from Coulson’s stare, from the rest of the godforsaken world that did this to them in the first place. “Let me…care for you, the way you care for me, Grant. Let me help you this time, okay?”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, then exhales. She can feel the tears running down his face on her thigh. She manages to take his hands and pull him into a sitting position on the floor.

“Let’s get you clean,” she murmurs, opens the cooler, and takes out the cool washcloths. She wipes his face, his neck, his chest. She has him stand, and screw whoever might be watching—she pulls the sweat-soaked sweatpants off of him and bathes the rest of him. Then she takes the towel and rubs it gently, but briskly over him, bringing warmth to the surface of his skin. She helps him into a clean pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt.

They both seem determined to ignore the bruises covering his body.

She covers the mattress with one of the blankets, plumps up the two pillows, and places them at one end of the mattress. She snaps the other blanket in place, folding it so they can lie down when they’re ready.

She goes to the cooler and grabs two bottles of water. She holds one out to him. “Drink that for me?” she asks.

He nods, opens the bottle and then starts drinking as if he can’t stop. Wordlessly, she hands him the second bottle, which he finishes more slowly than the first.

“Better?” she asks, and he nods.

Again, to hell with the video feed, and she slips down her boxers and pulls her nightshirt over her head. The empty bottle of water falls from his hand. She looks down at the dark handprints on her upper arms and sighs in understanding. “It’s all right. _I’m_ all right. Let’s both just get some rest, okay?” She holds out her hand to him and he takes it, letting her draw him down on to the mattress.

She holds him—he holds her; it doesn’t really matter.

“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry…” he keeps whispering until she kisses him. He doesn’t tangle a hand in her hair or place a hand on her neck.

He just wraps his arms around her and kisses her back as if she is something fragile and precious and broken.

“Stay?” he whispers.

She curls into his embrace, resting her head on his chest. “I’ll always stay,” she murmurs, and he relaxes against her, falling into natural sleep.

She stares into the darkness for a long time.

***

She didn’t bring her phone in with her, so she doesn’t know what time it is when she wakes. All she does know is that someone is gently placing warm, soft kisses up and down her neck, and she’s already moaning softly. She reaches down and feels short, soft hair; skin with a touch of stubble. Her arms come up to stroke the nape of his neck, his arms, his back, smoothing over his skin. He’s warm; he’s taken off his T-shirt so she can pet him and rub him as he keeps kissing her neck.

She feels him hard against her and suddenly remembers where they are.

“Not here,” she whispers into his ear. “Not…not in the Cage.”

He stops kissing her; he stops moving altogether.

He carefully moves away from her.

She takes his hand and kisses the palm. His eyes follow the path of the bruises on her arms and he flinches.

She puts on her nightshirt and boxers to shield Ward from the sight of her bruised arms more than out of modesty.

She realizes that someone has been monitoring the feed because they get a warning of someone’s fist pounding the Cage door three times just before it opens to reveal Coulson, holding the “Night-Night” pistol trained on Ward, and May.

Ward stands up, but lets his hands hang at his sides, and finds himself pressing his back against the wall of the Cage, watching Skye leave with May without casting a backwards glance.

***

Coulson ordered him into the shower, so that’s what he’s doing.

He’s disgusted with himself.

That won’t wash away.

She was foolish and childish and selfish, but the blame for the deaths and the dangers should be laid at Centipede’s door, not hers.

He’s her S.O. and Dom, and he let his personal issues get tangled up in what should have been a straightforward punishment. She trusts him, literally, with her life, without question.

He had no right to break her the way he did.

But he doesn’t know what to do to fix it.

And Coulson is waiting for him.

***

Ward starts when the door behind him slides open, but he continues to stand at parade rest in front of Coulson’s desk, with his head bowed in submission. He hears Coulson sigh, hears ice clinking against glass, and prepares himself for the sharp smell of alcohol. But all he smells is lime juice.

Two tall glasses, filled with nothing more than ice and—water?

He looks at Coulson, fear and confusion written on every plane of his face. Coulson sighs again and takes pity on the boy standing in front of him. “It’s all right, Grant. It’s just Pellegrino on ice with a twist of lime. I’ve read your entire file. I’m not going to give you your reprimand smelling like booze.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ward replies softly.

Coulson eases himself down and into his desk chair, letting it cradle him. “Sit. Drink it slowly. Get some equilibrium back,” he orders.

Ward sits down warily, but he’s grateful for the drink. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. They sit and drink in silence until Coulson can see Ward’s shoulders drop.

Coulson sighs for a third time. “Can you tell me what went wrong, Grant? Because if it ever happens again, I assure you: being reassigned to Alaska will seem like a pleasure jaunt after I’m finished with you.”

Coulson watches as “Agent Ward” begins to be replaced by a very frightened boy. “I backed her up. Stood up for her. I’m her S.O.; her Dom. And she still went to… _him_.”

“Miles Lydon,” Coulson says softly.

Ward slams the glass down on the desk. “She said she wanted me to _collar_ her. She was well on her way to… _earning_ it. We argued about it, but…things were _fine_ …I don’t _understand_!” His voice breaks on the last word and then suddenly he’s wiping away tears with the heel of his hand.

He doesn’t notice Coulson getting up and walking around the desk. He just feels hands on his shoulders—warm, strong, solid. Not threatening him, but grounding him. Keeping him from flying apart. “Grant, you took the tiger by the tail when you decided to take on Skye as her S.O. _and_ her Dom and you knew that,” Coulson tells him, and Ward just nods miserably in agreement.

_Skye._ She was supposed to be…sullen, uncooperative out of fear, not out of righteous anger. She was supposed to be tongue-tied and intimidated, not stand toe-to-toe with him, poking him in the chest, spewing her special brand of sarcastic vitriol—

_“I just got kidnapped by your ‘style’”_

_“Just because you’re…reasonable and…firm doesn’t mean you aren’t a...evil, faceless, government toolbag!”_

—so he had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing—or to keep himself from silencing that mouth with kisses. They were _supposed_ to find some platitude-spouting, scrawny, _stinking_ kid—she was supposed to be _Miles Lydon_ , Goddamn it, not _Skye_ , not defiant, quick-witted, ebullient, mercurial, understanding, so damned smart and funny and brave and loving and vulnerable enough to touch you…to touch your _heart_ when you weren’t sure you were even supposed to _have_ one anymore.

He spasms with silent sobs, feeling Coulson’s steadying grip on his shoulder and the back of his neck.

After a while, Coulson tucks a clean white handkerchief into his hands. “Go ahead and mop up, Grant,” Coulson says, not unkindly. He hears ice against glass again and hears more Pellegrino being poured, smells what has now become a soothing combination of clean cotton and fresh limes. Coulson takes the handkerchief back and presses his glass into his hand. He drinks, large swallows this time, and empties the glass before putting it back on the desk.

Coulson sits back down on the other side of the desk again, occasionally sipping from his glass. “That second mission—the 0-8-4 in Peru?” He waits for Ward’s nod. “Now _that_ actually scared the hell out of her. Still does, on occasion.”

Ward looks at his hands. “I know,” he says softly, having had to soothe Skye out of nightmares once too often. Usually, she’ll just wrap her arms around him tightly, bury her face in his chest, and say, “Peru,” before falling asleep again.

Coulson puts down his drink and leans in to study him. “No. You _don’t_ know. Because if you knew the nightmare, you _would_ understand; you would have collared her _weeks_ ago, instead of throwing a goddamned temper tantrum last night.”

Coulson doesn’t need to raise his voice. Ward swallows and looks up, listening, finally paying attention.

“The nightmare she has—it’s gone down to about twice a week now—is that she doesn’t get that raft open in time…and she loses _you_ out of that hole she convinced _all_ of you to put in the side of the Bus. Not the rest of us. For some reason, the one person she feels responsible for on this entire team, is, for better or for worse—you. Skye has made herself the keeper of the safety of one Grant Douglas Ward, so it’s about time for you to step up and pay better attention to what the _hell_ is going on around you—and to those you have _chosen_ to be responsible for.”

Coulson leans back in his chair, looking at Ward looking like he’s been smacked in the back of the head with a two-by-four.

“I got shot.”

Coulson leans forward again. “Ward, you’ve been shot so much, we could use you as a colander to drain the pasta when Fitz insists on having ‘Spaghetti Night’. I need a little more detail.”

_Something_ …is apparently making its slow way through Ward’s brain and Coulson is curious as to what that something is. “Ward?”

“’You got shot!’ That’s all she kept saying on the plane, after the extraction, before everything went sideways on the Bus on that mission to Peru. It was just a graze; the damned thing was fine, but she was like this little—terrier or something about it. She wouldn’t let it _go_ , even after everything else went down. She even told _Simmons_ about it and made Simmons show her how to clean and bandage it because, apparently, I ‘didn’t have the sense that God gave a peanut’…” Ward trails off, a small smile on his face. “She would barge in on me _every night_ with that damned First-Aid Kit, _sit_ on me so I couldn’t get away, and clean and re-bandage the damned thing.”

Coulson chuckles. “She _sat_ on you?”

Ward clears his throat and looks anywhere but at Coulson. “Umm…yessir.”

“How long did the…treatment…last?”

Ward hangs his head. “A week.”

Coulson leans back, not making a sound, but with that small three-cornered smile of his on his face. He taps his fingers together, watching the boy slowly turn back into Agent Grant Ward, but with a new clarity to his eyes.

Ward clears his throat. “I’m sorry, sir. What happened last night…will never be repeated again.”

Coulson nods once and says, “You’re damned right, because if it happens again, you will be six feet under, no flag, no marker, because it will be a real bullet, not dendrotoxin. Do I make myself clear?”

Ward swallows hard and nods. He has learned that Coulson does not bluff.

He does not need to.

“Your reprimand consists of two parts,” Coulson continues.

Ward sits up straight and looks at him. “Yes, sir?”

Coulson raises a finger. “One: The incident involving Miles Lydon is over. You will let it go.”

Ward nods and sighs, mostly in relief. “Yes, sir.”

Coulson raises a second finger. “Two: You are going to pick out a collar _right now_ and, _if she still wants you to,_ you will collar Skye. If you had collared her in the beginning, we probably wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Ward looks at Coulson, slightly confused. “Sir?” he asks, hesitantly.

“How passionate is Skye in everyday life?” Coulson asks. “She _carpes_ the hell out of each and every _diem_. I’m going to give _Skye_ the courtesy of _not_ imagining how passionate she can be in an intimate situation.” He manages not to chuckle as a bright red blush works its way up Ward’s neck and over his face.

“If you had collared Skye in the beginning, that physical reminder would have kept her in check—she probably would have gone to you immediately, but privately, to explain about Miles Lydon and to ask for a punishment for initially contacting him when we decided to take her on as an agent-trainee,” Coulson finishes and drinks the rest of his water as Ward’s probably exhausted mind considers what Coulson has just told him.

Ward finally looks at him, his eyes clear, but his face slightly troubled. “Sir?” he asks again, quietly.

Coulson smiles, knowing what the question is, and glad he is the one who can supply the answer. “You want to know how you’re supposed to get a collar.”

Ward looks at him with a slightly puzzled expression, but simply answers, “Yes, sir.”

Coulson reaches down and presses a fingertip against an almost invisible scanner. He hears a lock disengage within the desk, opens a drawer, shifts a few things around, and brings out the flat cases he keeps hidden. “You’ll choose from one of these,” he says softly, and pretends not to notice as Ward blinks away tears, then focuses on the contents of the black-velvet lined jewelry cases in front of him.

Ward looks a little overwhelmed at the selection of collars—there is one of smooth black metal and one of gold, there are ones with small, but sturdy heart-shaped padlocks. There are ones shaped like ropes and others that are chains. He’s not quite sure, until he sees the second jewelry case. He gently, reverently, picks it up.

Coulson nods at his choice. “That one will be obvious enough for those who know about your relationship and to those who know what collaring someone actually means. It will just look like a unique piece of jewelry to anyone else. It’s sterling silver and it will lie flat around her neck so it’ll be comfortable enough to wear every day, but there is one _very_ important rule the two of you _cannot_ forget.”

Ward looks intently at Coulson and nods. “Yes, sir?”

“This collar comes with a small, three-digit combination lock that, technically, only you should have the combination to, in your type of relationship. However, you are her S.O. as well, and you are training her to be a field agent. _The collar comes off during your training sessions and when we go into the field_. In fact, everyone here will be given the combination, including Skye, so it can be removed quickly in an emergency or when a senior agent, including myself or May, deems it necessary.”

Ward nods his understanding at the necessity of those rules.

Coulson continues. “You will also, under May’s direction and instruction, _learn how to train with Skye while she is wearing the collar_. She could be out on the street during some downtime, shopping with Jemma, even, and some idiot could attack her, maybe try to drag her off somewhere, using the collar to subdue her.” Coulson watches Ward carefully as his eyes darken with suppressed rage. He continues. "That is why _both of you_ , together and independently, _will_ train under May’s instruction while Skye wears the collar. I’m not telling you this to make you angry, Agent Ward—I’m telling you this so you will _think carefully_ about Skye’s safety.”

Ward realizes his hands are clenched in fists around the collar and he forces himself to relax his muscles. “I’m sorry, sir,” he apologizes, before sitting back in his chair.

“The collar you picked out has a meaning—a _private_ meaning—for the two of you alone. It’s not for playtime—have some fun picking out a different collar for scenes. And don’t _ever_ attach a leash—mental or physical—to that collar you’re holding. That collar in your hands right now has more power to keep you together or tear you apart than a set of wedding bands ever could,” Coulson finishes, putting the other collars away in their compartment.

Coulson has no idea what time it is and only a vague concept of what day it might be. He’s exhausted. He looks at the younger man. “Your reprimand is concluded, Agent Ward,” he says, almost laughing at the relief he sees on Ward’s face. “I don’t know about you, but I could use some sleep. I’ll walk you to your bunk because, frankly, I don’t trust you not to go barging into Skye’s bunk right now and giving her that collar. Put it in this…” Coulson looks in the drawer again and pulls out a black velvet bag and hands it to Ward, who gently puts the collar in and pulls the drawstrings shut. He tucks it in his pocket and waits for Coulson to get up and come around the desk.

They walk to his bunk where Coulson presses a warm hand on his shoulder. “Get some sleep, then get some food, talk with Skye about what happened and why, and then offer her the collar.”

Coulson turns to go back upstairs to get some rest when he hears, “Sir?”

He turns and waits. Ward flushes and says softly, “What _is_ the three-digit code for the collar?”

Coulson smiles his three-cornered smile. “6-1-6, Ward. The code is 6-1-6.”

Then he turns and heads back upstairs.

***

He’s holding the black velvet jeweler’s bag in his hand.

When he enters her bunk and closes the door behind him, careful not to lock it, she slips effortlessly into position, kneeling, thighs spread, back straight, head down, arms clasped behind her back.

She’s wearing long sleeves to hide the bruising on her arms.

“Skye, I…” he tries to begin.

He tucks the bag back into his pocket and kneels down to help Skye to her feet. Her head is bent; she still won’t look at him.

“Please look at me,” he asks her. Doesn’t she realize that she holds all the cards, is the one with all the power? That she’s the one who is holding his beating heart in her hands?

She looks at him, her lips pressed together in a determined line.

When he takes the bag out of his pocket, she finally speaks.

“Don’t.”

He freezes. They’ve argued about this, talked about this, beaten each other into the ground about this.

Isn’t this what she wants?

“But you—”

“Not like this. Not because Coulson ordered you to. Not while I still have these bruises on my arms.”

It feels like she’s just slapped him across the face.

“I’m sorry for breaking your trust in me,” she says softly, still looking at him, but not reaching out to him—not trying to make contact with him on any level.

“You’re still my S.O.; hopefully, in a week, you and I will still want me to wear what I know is in that bag.”

This isn’t happening.

“We each need time. I need to earn the team’s trust back. I have…apologies, reparations to make…to everyone. I need to earn _your_ trust back.”

Tears are in her voice and on her face and he still can’t believe this is happening.

“But I watched the security feed. I heard what you said to me, saw what you did to me because you got angry and jealous and hurt. I…” She shakes her head slowly. “…I need to know you’ll _never_ take advantage of me that way again.”

“Skye, I’m sorry—” he tries.

She holds up one hand—and takes a step back.

Away.

From _him_.

“I will _always_ be here. I will _always_ belong to you. But _I_ betrayed _you,_ and like it or not, _you_ betrayed _me._ You said it yourself—you broke something in me and some part of you wanted to do it. Give that…broken part time to heal. You always explain my punishments to me. That’s why I’m…trying to explain this to you.”

He takes a hesitant step towards her, then another. He drops to his knees in front of her and bends his head, waiting for the executioner’s axe.

Then she’s pressing his face into her belly and running her hands over his head, his neck, his back, like she’s trying to memorize him, and she’s sobbing—harsh, miserable sounds.

When she finally stops crying, and her hands are resting gently on his shoulders, he pushes himself up.

“One week,” he says shortly, turns to leave, and stops.

“Training’s at the usual time tomorrow morning.” Then he leaves.

She locks the door behind him with trembling fingers, then pulls his shirt out from the closet, wrapping it around her pillow, and curling herself around it on the floor.

Five minutes pass as she lies there, trembling.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen.

The room grows thick with shadows. She passes into an uneasy sleep.

Some unknown amount of time later, the lock on her door is bypassed and her door slides open.

He slides the door closed and engages the lock.

He’s trembling from the length and exertion of his workout and the heat of his shower, but he manages to bend down and pick her up without waking her. He places her on the bed, slipping the pillow under her head; with grim satisfaction, he notes that she has his shirt wrapped around her pillow. He toes off his shoes and slips in behind her, wearing only a clean pair of exercise pants.

She stirs. “Grant?” she whispers in confusion.

He bends his head down and brushes his lips over her cheek. “I’m here,” he replies.

She turns towards him, not questioning his presence, simply sighing in relief as his arms wrap around her, nuzzling into his chest. He presses her head over his heart and tangles a hand in her hair, prepared to spend the next seven days like this, if necessary.

“I’ll always be here.”

The darkness embraces them both.


End file.
